Again the old man is separated from his daughter, placed in the hands of a bailiff, and remanded back to prison, there to hope, fear, and while away the time, waiting six, perhaps eight months, for the sitting of the Court of Appeals.  The “Appeal Court,” you must know, would seem to have inherited the aristocracy of our ancestors, for, having a great aversion to business pursuits, it sits at very long intervals, and gets through very little business.

When the news of her father’s remand reaches Maria, it overwhelms her with grief.  Varied are her thoughts of how she shall provide for the future; dark and sad are the pictures of trouble that rise up before her.  Look whichever way she will, her ruin seems sealed.  The health of her aged father is fast breaking-her own is gradually declining under the pressure of her troubles.  Rapidly forced from one extreme to another, she appeals to a few acquaintances who have expressed friendship for her father; but their friendship took wings when grim poverty looked in.  Southern hospitality, though bountifully bestowed upon the rich, rarely condescends to shed its bright rays over the needy poor.

Maria advertises for a situation, in some of our first families, as private seamstress.  Our first families having slaves for such offices, have no need of “poor white trash.”  She applies personally to several ladies of “eminent standing,” and who busy themselves in getting up donations for northern Tract Societies.  They have no sympathy to waste upon her.  Her appeal only enlists coldness and indifference.  The “Church Home” had lent an ear to her story, but that her address is very unsatisfactory, and it is got out that she is living a very suspicious life.  The “Church Home,” so virtuous and pious, can do nothing for her until she improves her mode of living.  Necessity pinches Maria at every turn.  “To be poor in a slave atmosphere, is truly a crime,” she says to herself, musing over her hard lot, while sitting in her chamber one evening.  “But I am the richer!  I will rise above all!” She has just prepared to carry some nourishment to her father, when Keepum enters, his face flushed, and his features darkened with a savage scowl.  “I have said you were a fool-all women are fools!—­and now I know I was not mistaken!” This Mr. Keepum says while throwing his hat sullenly upon the floor.  “Well,” he pursues, having seated himself in a chair, looked designingly at the candle, then contorted his narrow face, and frisked his fingers through his bright red hair, “as to this here wincing and mincing-its all humbuggery of a woman like you.  Affecting such morals!  Don’t go down here; tell you that, my spunky girl.  Loose morals is what takes in poor folks.”

Maria answers him only with a look of scorn.  She advances to the door to find it locked.

“It was me-I locked it.  Best to be private about the matter,” says Keepum, a forced smile playing over his countenance.